The Rise And Fall Of Boromir the Fair
by Alysia James
Summary: We are what the world makes us.
1. A Welcome Arrival

A/N Entropy is not my friend. I haven't touched this story in over a year. For a while I just wasn't feeling the call to write. It's come back. So I'm, dusting this bad boy off and mean to continue on.

Standard disclaimers apply, people you don't recognize are most likely mine. I'm not making any money off of this. It's movieverse, because Sean Bean and David Wenham are just too cute for their own damn good. For the grown up Sean Bean fans out there, I highly recommend "Lady Chatterley's Lover." All I've got to say about that is um, dang! For you David Wenham emotional torture fans (and you know who you are), "After the Deluge", which also has Hugo Weaving in it.

This is as much the story of Denethor, Finduilas, Faramir and the Fellowship as it is Boromir. We are reflected in those we surround ourselves with, willingly or not. Now I present to you the life of Boromir the Fair from beginning to end.

A Most Welcome Arrival

Denethor squinted as the sweat ran into his eyes and hope for victory withered. Rudh's squire was a fine fighter. His cuts were clean. His blows flowed smoothly from one to the other. No step misplaced, not a bit of wasted energy in his blocks. It was as if he already knew the outcome; as if had fought this battle a thousand times in his dreams. Denethor smiled to himself. He probably had. All good fighters did; dreamt blow, block, and parry. Faultless combinations, calls and responses as mechanical as a tinkers machine, as dependable as the tide. How did one combat predictable perfection?

A growl started low in Denethor's throat and a feral smile curled his lips. His opponent hesitated and took a step back. Had the son of the Steward just growled at him?

On the inside Denethor crowed with expected triumph. His opponent's minute hesitation and retreat had lost him the fight. Pressing an all-out attack, without thought to defense; Denethor, in a matter of moments, had the squire disarmed and flat on his back, a cloud of practice ring sawdust settling in his hair.

Gasping victoriously, Denethor offered his hand to the fallen fighter. The squire reached out tentatively, as if still half unsure whether or not the Steward's son would bite. Denethor threw his head back and laughed, grabbing the meekly proffered hand.

"Well fought lad! What's your name?" he boomed heartily pulling the boy to his feet.

"Telgaer, my lord!" A grin half a league wide split the squire's face. The Steward was asking for his name. Denethor clapped him on the back and sneezed as a cloud of sawdust rose from the boy's arming jacket.

"I suppose you want to know how I beat you." The boy's head nodded up and down quickly.

"Remember, old age and treachery will win out over youth and ability every time. I was able to break your concentration by doing something unexpected. Your technique is flawless, yet technique is but one part of the puzzle. You must not only fight with these," he indicated the lad's bulging arms, "but with this," a strong index finger drilled into the center of the lad's brawny chest, "and this!" Denethor tapped a finger to the lad's temple and clasped his shoulder companionably. "Heed Sir Rudh, he will guide you on the path."

"Thank you sir ! I will sir!" Taelgar's smiled widened further than Denethor would have thought possible. And his keen eyes didn't miss the glance and smug smile thrown over his shoulder to one of the other boys, presumably a rival. "My Lord Denethor!" a voice carried across the square. Denethor turned to see his seneschal hurrying across the salle. He did not pause or slow down as he crossed the fighting field until he arrived at the pair's side.

Denethor put a companionable hand on Rudh's shoulder, "Your Telgaer here is a fine fighter. I fully expect to see him wearing spurs soon." Denethor looked back at Taelgar with a sly grin, "Though like all young bucks a little humility would not be remiss."

High color blazed from the young fighter's cheeks as his shoulders and back straightened perceptibly and he stared at a point somewhere over his liege lord's shoulder. "I will work on that sir. I promise."

Denethor and Rudh shared a knowing smile. "I know you will lad, I know you will. Back to your studies then."

Taelgar sketched a bow and jogged off to the waiting knot of squires who were anxiously awaiting a report. Denethor's keen hearing, a gift of his Numenorean heritage, picked up some of the questions the boy was peppered with. "What did the Lord Denethor say? Are you in trouble?"

Denethor turned his attention back to his seneschal. "He's a good lad, Rudh. You did a fine job."

Rudh beamed as did his squire. But as quickly as it came, the man's smile fell.

Denethor noticing his discomfort, waited patiently, but the man held silent, eyes averted.

"Come, Rudh, speak," Denethor said not unkindly.

Reluctantly Rudh began deliver his news, "I've come from your lady wife's apartments sir," and again Denethor's liegeman fell silent, his complexion taking on an unnatural pallor.

"Out with it man! Time marches on even for ones with blood such as ours," quipped Denethor uneasily.

"It is time my lord," Rudh whispered and nearly sank to his knees from the strength of the grip on his shoulder.

Without a moment's further hesitation Denethor ran from the ring, stripping and dropping armor as he sped, hurrying to Findulais's apartments.

He hesitated at the door of her outer chamber, his courage nearly deserting him. He reached for the door when a scream shocked him to his soul; a scream torn from the throat of the person whom he loved the most upon all of Arda. He sat back on his heels, guilt rising in his breast and nausea settling in his belly as another scream echoed through the hallway. This was his fault. He had done this.

A heavy hand descended on his shoulder, "Get up boy!! Why are you squatting on the floor like some brainless savage? You are my son. Or so your beloved mother claims and I have yet prove otherwise."

His father's crude laughter rang so loudly his ears he wished he could clasp his hands over them.

"It is time," Denethor muttered and shrugged diffidently, his father's stare weighing as heavily on him as his hand, "I am worried for my lady wife."

Ecthelion snorted, "You have no one to blame but yourself. Had you married that wide hipped girl from Lossarnarch like I told you, she'd have dropped the pup already and you'd be back in the practice ring losing to your seneschal's squire. Again. But you were in love," Ecthelion sneered.

Denethor flushed, embarrassed that his father had been watching the battle and had found his own performance so wanting.

"I married with your approval my lord."

"Of course with my approval," Ecthelion roared again, "the court was thrilled to find that you for cared for women at all. Much was in doubt after the incident with Thorongil."

Ecthelion's gaze narrowed and his voice dropped to a whisper that pierced, "What did happen between you to cause Thorongil to leave m- the White City?"

An ugly blush stained Denethor's normally pale cheeks. His father's slip of the tongue had not been lost of him. No doubt it had been purposeful. Ecthelion had ever blamed his son for his beloved Thorongil's defection. Anger, jealousy and shame chased themselves in Denethor's heart, but he was saved from having to respond by a piercing scream so loud that even Ecthelion turned to the door, a worried frown appearing between his heavy brows.

The scream was followed by a lusty wail of a different pitch and Ecthelion's face lit up. He cuffed his son so hard on his shoulder he almost knocked him over. No mean feat for Denethor stood over six feet and was built very similarly to his bear of a sire. Ecthelion placed his hand on the door knob and threw open the door. Propelling his son into the room, he ignored the scandalized stares of the midwives and walked up to the bundle nestled in his daughter-in-law's arms, and already feeding noisily.

"Well?!?" Ecthelion demanded. "Has my son finally proven that he is of the house of Hurin and sired the 27th Steward?"

Denethor winced and looked to Finduilas, an apology in his eyes for his overbearing father. She looked exhausted, spent and supremely happy. She smiled soothingly at her husband and cooed to the bundle in her arms.

"You have a grandson my lord. His name is Boromir," Findulais nodded in the direction of her overjoyed husband.

"'Faithful jewel.' Hmmm well chosen boy! I freely admit I had my doubts about the both of you." He turned his steel gaze to Findulais, "I thought you far too fey to bring a healthy heir into the world, but you did well daughter and I am proud." Denethor's ire rose at the bald insult to his wife, but Finduilas eyes and manner gentled him as always. The Steward missed the exchange and turned to his son.

"And as for you," Ecthelion did not finish his thought, but his eyes spoke volumes. "Well, let it just be said that Gondor will breathe a bit easier now. Well done, my boy!"

A few more teeth jarring claps on the shoulder, and Ecthelion left the couple alone. The midwives busied themselves tidying up the room.

Denethor took Finduilas's free hand and kissed it. Tears of joy, relief and love escaped and spilled slowly down his cheek. He let them fall. His father was not here.

Leaning down, he gently kissed his newborn son's blonde head and then softly kissed his wife, "Thank you, my love."

"You are most welcome, my love."

Denethor watched as emerald green eyes followed his every move. A son. Thank the Valar. The succession was assured.


	2. An Unwelcome Arrival

A/N Disclaimer: Movieverse. Again if you recognize the name, they ain't mine. Sorry there still isn't too much of Boromir action in this one. He is after all only two at this point. I'm guessing even for Boromir that was too young to start training for war. I'm trying to portray the complex relationship between Denethor and Findulias in a realistic way and start paving the way for the not-so-very-likable Denethor. Sorry guys, eventually Denethor tries to set his own son on fire, he can't be Mister Rogers forever. As always, many many thanks to those who have read and reviewed.

Finduilas was in the nursery putting little Boromir down for a much-protested nap when the silver trumpets alerted Gondor's citizenry to the return of one of her lords. She rolled her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable wail from her over-tired son. Eru take those blasted trumpets! Thick blond lashes fluttered sleepily to reveal grey-green eyes that promptly screwed up tight along with the rest of a baby plump face, heralding an ear splitting cry of frustration. Finduilas quickly picked up her squirming son and began to gently rub his back in tiny circles, crooning softly into his ear. "Ssshh my darling. Mama is here." Eru, the little one was getting heavier by the day.

Almost immediately the sturdy little body relaxed into her, the wail quieting into an unsettled snuffling at her neck. Sighing, Fin breathed in the sweet baby smell and kissed her son's velvet soft cheek. Too soon this one would be taken from her. Grist for Gondor's army. Fodder for the Steward's Chair. Fin would shield her son for as long as she was able, but eventually Denethor would insist and take her little one away. He already thought that the child was long overdue to be placed in the care of a proper nanny.

It had been a fight to keep him by her side as long as she had. She giggled when she remembered the apoplectic blush on her husband's cheeks when she insisted on feeding Boromir herself until he was weaned. Ladies of Gondor do not do such things, he protested, it was so very common. Fin wondered if he even realized that the glimmer of desire in his eyes betrayed his true feelings. How had the wild, lusty Ecthelion managed to raise such a repressed son? Fin sighed; there was her answer right there. Ecthelion had had little or no hand in raising his son. He had been fostered to the terribly proper Lord Galiavas. And that Lord had instilled in his young charge a disdain for the earthier aspects of life Taught him that they were temptations that caused an otherwise good man to stray from the noble path of duty. Still, Ecthelion's blood ran in Denethor's veins and she sometimes wondered if that conflict didn't slowly break her husband down.

In time, a soft even breath on her cheek alerted her that Boromir was finally asleep again. Laying him in the bassinet, she paused for a moment to take in his sweet features. She kissed his forehead and softly closed the nursery door as she left.

The trumpets had piqued her curiosity. Both Denethor and Ecthelion were within the city. There was no council called for this day, so who could they be for? She went to her dressing room and briefly checked her appearance in her looking glass. Denethor demanded that his wife and son appear immaculate at all times. He hated any form of public untidiness. She smoothed the green velvet of her bilaut and adjusted the filigreed mithril chaplet that held her veil in place. Her cheeks were rosy and her green eyes sparkled, motherhood agreed with her. How could it not with such a sweet boy as Boromir? As with most mothers, Finduilas was completely blind to the faults of own her little angel.

She walked swiftly towards the courtyard. A page rounded the corner a mite too fast and nearly collided with her.

"Oh, my Lady, I most humbly beg your pardon!"

"It's alright, Falath, no harm done, but why are you in such a rush?"

"He's returned, my lady! Thorongil has returned!" and with that the page continued pell-mell down the hall missing the quickly indrawn breath and the hand reaching out for the steadying effects of the nearby wall.

Thorongil winced as the silver trumpets heralded his return. So much for entering the city unnoticed. As he passed each gate he heard the whispers. "Thorongil!" "Thorongil has returned!"

He passed the gate of the seventh circle, dismounted and smoothly went to knee only to be raised and engulfed by Ecthelion's arms, "Thorongil! You have returned to us, my boy!"

Aragorn smiled at the older man's welcome and nodded. "I have missed the White City and her Lord."

Ecthelion's smile widened to dangerous proportions, "And we have missed you! Andion!" Ecthelion called to his seneschal, "Prepare a feast! Gondor's son has returned!"

Later that evening, Finduilas opened the nursery door to check on Boromir. He slept soundly, put to bed by her maid, one white blond lock falling across his brow, his thumb firmly placed between rosebud lips. Oh how she loved him!

Closing the door Fin entered her quarters and called for her maid to help her undress.

"Did Boromir trouble you at all?"

The maid smiled, "Of course he did my lady. He did not understand why he was not allowed to the great feast. After all," the maid imitated the Boromir's high childish lisp, " 'm alweady two", here the maid held up three fingers, " 'm gwown.'"

Fin laughed and then sighed in ecstasy as her maid sat her in front of her mirror and began to brush out her hair. Her smile turned to a frown as she replayed in her mind the events of the past few hours.

The feast had been an unmitigated disaster. Ecthelion had sat Thorongil on his right, the place traditionally occupied by the heir. Denethor had sat on Ecthelion's left and had drunk himself into a stupor beneath his father's accusing glare and Thorongil's sympathetic one. Finduilas wondered which had hurt her husband more. She cursed Ecthelion for showing such favoritism to one not of his own house. In the same breath she prayed that Denethor had not noticed her gaze lingering more than was proper on the Dunedain. Her sigh was heavy and drew the maid's attention.

"Milady?" she queried softly.

"'Tis nothing Calen."

"'Tis Thronogil," the maid said knowingly.

"Mind your tongue, Calen," Findulias cautioned sharply.

Calen stopped brushing her mistress's hair and met her eyes in the looking glass, "Milady, how long have I been your maid?"

When her mistress didn't respond, she answered for her, "Since you reached womanhood, and have I not been there to help you and shield you every step of the way? Was it not I who nursed you through your first crush? Through your first heartbreak? Through your wedding night?"

Fin blushed and nodded at the memory. She had been so young and innocent, having no idea what went on between a man and a woman really. With her mother dead, the responsibility for Fin's education had devolved to Calen. It was Calen's words that allowed her to go to a husband that was, in truth, as, if not more nervous than she, with a modicum of confidence and understanding and for that Fin would be forever grateful.

Calen resumed her task and Fin relaxed into the steadying strokes of the brush.

"Do you love him?"

"Of course, he is the father of my child."

"I do not mean the lord Denethor."

Fin stood and paced over to her looking glass, "The only man I have ever loved was my husband. "

Calen sighed, how was she to break through to this woman who was still in many ways an innocent. With the truth she supposed.

"My lady, 'tis no sin to feel desire for another. My husband, Valar rest his soul, would tease me mercilessly for casting sheep's eyes at your father's chamberlain. Still he knew my true heart's love was reserved for him alone."

Fin blushed harder at the thought that someone, even if it was her beloved Calen, noticed her unseemly glances. "It is not love I feel for Thorongil. What I feel-felt for Thorongil was but a maidenly crush."

Calen continued brushing her mistress's hair. "You are hardly a maiden," she whispered slyly.

Fin looked at her maid's reflection, stricken, "Why do you do this?"

Calen set the brush on a nearby table, "Because I love you and would not see you suffer. You have ever held Thorongil above Denethor in your heart of hearts. You have woven Throngil into the tapestry of your fantasies, imbuing him with traits and virtues far beyond those possessed by a mere man."

Tears welled in Fin's sea green eyes. She crossed her arms and laid her head down on them. Calen, feeling her charge's pain gently rubbed her back to soothe her.

"I had almost forgotten him, Calen. I had almost cut him from my thoughts. From my heart! Why did he have to return!? Why do I still love him?"

Calen shook her head. Poor mite. She still did not understand. She bore no true love for this Thorongil. She loved the dreams and fantasies she had woven around the handsome mysterious stranger. Denethor was her reality and she believed the two of them could, in time, be very happy with each other. Calen prayed that her mistress would realize this before it was too late.

In the hall Denethor raised a hand to knock at Fin's door. He swayed slightly, but was to all intents and purposes sober. He had come to apologize for his horrendous behavior and to suggest a day down in the city's markets. He remembered Fin mentioning a locket she had seen at one of the jeweler's in the fifth circle. Hearing Fin's voice through the door, he paused. All was mumbled except for her last words.

"From my heart…why did he have to return?...Why do I love him still?"

Denethor dropped to his knees as if he had taken a fist to his belly. He tasted the sourness of vomit in his mouth. It was as he had always feared. His beloved, his beautiful Fin loved another. And the man she loved. A gasp of pain escaped and he bit his lip until it bled so that his moment of weakness would not be repeated.

He staggered to his feet and then to his chambers where he emptied the meager contents of his stomach into the garderobe. He rinsed his mouth and called for his valet.

Thorongil! Oh gods how he hated that name. The man had robbed him of all he held dear and to add insult to injury did not even seem to want or appreciate that which he had stolen.

He stood stock still while his valet undressed him. He would not succumb to weakness. Fin had made her choice. He cursed himself. Had his father, not Ecthelion, for Ecthelion was merely his sire, warned him about loving a woman? Of giving one of the weaker sex that kind of power? He would not make that mistake again. He could not afford for his sanity to make that mistake again.

Denethor's lips tightened into a thin line as he grasped for a way to gain some semblance of control over himself and that which was his. Boromir. Yes. Of course. Long enough he had indulged Fin in her cosseting of their son. That would change and change on the morrow. The boy would have a proper nurse and begin his training to sit in the Steward's Chair in due course. The first thing Denethor would teach him was the weakness of women.


	3. Whither Love

Whither Love?

A/N Insert Standard Disclaimer here. And to forestall any flames, in my world the Palantir lies.

"How went the council, my lord? Did Galon relent?"

Denethor winced. "No, he asked for a full assembly."

Finduilas laid down her embroidery and went to her husband, gently guiding him to a stool. Handing him a goblet of mulled wine, she began to massage his temples. Denethor smiled at his wife's reflection in the mirror.

Finduilas frowned when the smile did not quite reach her husband's eyes. She dropped her hands to his shoulders, and only through long practice was Denethor able to check the shiver of distaste that traveled through his body whenever his wife touched him. Faithless whore, his mind whispered.

Long ago, he had confronted her over her confession of love for Thorongil, who had then deserted Minas Tirith a second time. She had begged for forgiveness; saying her woman's heart had tricked her into believing she loved Gondor's captain, but that she now saw her childish infatuation for what it was. She had wept and begged him to forgive her, to believe in her one more time. And he had done so, beginning to believe that she cared for him, that she loved only him; until the Palantir had shown him the truth. Until the Palantir had shown her in the arms of the one she truly loved. Still it would not do for her to know the depth of his revulsion. He needed another son, and it would go easier if she believed he loved her still.

Unable to stand her touch any longer he rose and went into the nursery where their son was sleeping. Finduilas followed, a quiet regret-filled ghost. Watching him watch their son, she grew concerned. His stare was so intense, so haunted.  
"Is aught amiss, my love?" she queried softly.

Denethor did not turn at his wife's question but merely continued to stand over the bed that held the five-year-old Boromir; shoulders slumped as if under a great weight. He reached out to caress his baby son's cheek and shivered as his hand passed over three black arrows protruding from his chest. No, no arrows. Not yet. Maybe never. But still precautions needed to be taken. Denethor thought again of the Palantir hidden safely in his uppermost chamber. He would bend the stone to his will and make it show him how to save his son.

"Gondor needs another son," he answered his wife as an afterthought. "What if Boromir should fall in battle? What then of the succession?"

Finduilas' eyes snapped fire, yet her voice was enough to chill the soft spring air to winter reborn, "He is not even in the schoolroom, my lord, and already you plan his funeral procession?!? His replacement?!?"

Denethor turned to Finduilas, the unusual coldness in her voice alerting him that he had made a grave tactical error. His head pounded with exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed and glazed. He stared at her as if she spoke a foreign tongue.

"Why wait? Why not make him captain general now?! Put a blade in his babe hand and order him to slay a score of orc!"

Snapping under the pressure, Denethor grabbed her arm and propelled her out of the nursery into their bedroom. "My lady, contain yourself," he hissed. "You are my wife, first lady of Gondor! Childish hysterics do not suit you!"

Finduilas paled at Denethor's rebuke. Where had her husband gone, the gentle man who cherished and loved her? Who was this stranger who used her so poorly? 

Seeing the fear and mistrust in his wife's eyes, Denethor winced. Where was his mind? He took her hands into his own and guided her to sit on the edge of their bed. He knelt before her, head hung low. "I am sorry, my love. The darkness grows and Gondor is sore pressed. The King does not come and our people lose faith. And I am beset from within as well as without. I …The people need something to renew their faith." Denethor paused and lifted his gaze to his wife. "My heart, I know Boromir's birth was difficult and I know you are afraid."

Fin parted her lips to protest, but Denethor laid a quieting finger against them. "Do not deny it, sweeting. I feared for you as well and if I could have I would have taken that pain upon myself." He reached out to caress her cheek and Finduilas, hearing the sincerity in his voice, nuzzled against the calloused hand. "But when you look upon our son, do you not believe it was it worth it? You have blessed us with this precious gift that has lightened my heart and yours."

Finduilas smiled, thinking of earlier days when the three of them were inseparable. Before Ecthelion's death. Before Denethor took up the White Rod of the Stewards.

Denethor drew Finduilas into his arms and she melted into his strong embrace. "Soon, my love, Boromir will be in the schoolroom. Would you not like another babe to cosset and love? I promise, dearest, this time will be easier."

Nodding, Finduilas reached up to draw her husband to her.  
Denethor donned his tunic, careful not to wake his sleeping wife. With luck a babe would already be growing in her belly. Silly chit! Why hadn't he listened to his father? Gondor would have been better served by a broad-hipped brood mare than this fragile wisp of uselessness. He needed sons. And daughters. Strong healthy boys to hold back the Shadow. Daughters to cement alliances with neighbors whose reluctance to answer Gondor's call was becoming more apparent by the day. Denethor pulled on a pair of soft leather shoes.

It was time to check on Rohan and Théoden's boy. Yes, that was what Gondor needed, an alliance by marriage between the houses of Eorl and Hurin. A king of Hurin blood. A Hurin king to bring Rohan back to Gondor and rule the reunited kingdom. A Hurin king to reunite Gondor and Arnor, perhaps all of Middle-Earth under… Denethor shook his head. A Hurin king? Hurins were stewards and served only; their sole duty, to hold the throne in trust until the return of the king. A king who had not been seen or taken up his birthright for a thousand years. A king from a broken line that had betrayed them all. Denethor shook his head again and tried to marshal his wayward thoughts. Perhaps for now it would be better not to brave the long climb to the tower and face the stone within. To do battle with the will of the Palantir in this state was to invite disaster. He oriented himself in the direction of his offices. He sighed as he remembered the grain reports that had yet to be reviewed and the troop captain rosters that needed to be approved.

In the Steward's apartments Finduilas lay on her side, her eyes shut tightly against the threatening tears. She was with child. Though she had conceived only a few hours before, she knew in her heart that she carried the Steward's second son. The Steward. Never again would she think of him as Denethor. His false show of affection had not fooled her. Her love, her Denethor was lost to her. Consumed by whatever secret lay in the uppermost room of Ecthelion's Tower. No matter, she laid her hand protectively on her stomach. This little one would be her comfort.

A small cry sounded from the nursery in the next room followed swiftly by a soft knock at the door. Boromir. A nightmare most likely. She sat up and drew on her dressing gown. "Come in," she called out.

The door cracked open hesitantly and a golden head peered through. "Mama?"

"Yes, darling, come in."

Boromir entered the room and looked about for his father. "Is Papa here?"

"No, sweetpea, he is in the tower most likely."

Boromir moved closer to the bed, but did not climb up. He was such a solitary child. This was no doubt Den—The Steward's doing. He was constantly drilling into Boromir his duties and responsibilities. A Hurin does not cry. A Hurin is always brave. A Hurin never shows weakness. A Hurin always cares for those weaker than him. All admirable traits, she supposed, but the end result was at the tender age of five, Boromir seemed to carry the weight of a world on his young shoulders.

Finduilas looked down into emerald green eyes so like her own and opened her arms. Boromir hesitated. A Hurin did not show fear. But the storm was so loud and his room so dark.

Finduilas watched as Boromir the child warred with Boromir the son of the Steward, and she cursed the man who had so warped his offspring that he could not seek comfort from his own mother.

"Darling, can you come give me a hug? The storm has frightened me."

Boromir eagerly climbed into the bed and wrapped small but sturdy arms around his mother. This he could do and not be shamed by his own weakness and fear. Finduilas settled Boromir next to her and kissed his head. Boromir yawned sleepily, breathing in his mother's warm soft scent.

Finduilas watched as her son fell into dreams. She stroked his brow, furrowed even in sleep, and looked up into the night sky. A hunter's moon shone that night, illuminating the Pelennor and silvering the Anduin in the distance.

She laid her hand on her stomach again. The Steward had his "jewel." She would have hers. Faramir. This little one would be known as Faramir.


	4. By The Sea

By The Sea

A/N Our favorite family takes a vacation. This chapter is filled with actual happiness. Don't know how that happened. As always, thank you for the read and review. Insert Standard Disclaimer here.

Fin stood shading her eyes, watching as her husband instructed their son in the basics of great sword. She was glad that he'd agreed to this small holiday by the sea. He was almost the man she'd fallen in love with here. His eyes were no longer dulled by exhaustion; less often did lines of worry crease his forehead, ageing him prematurely. Even the spectre of Thorongil seemed less potent here.

After Faramir's birth the scales had fallen from her eyes. Thorongil was but a young woman's fantasy. Denethor was her reality; her husband, father of her children, the warmth that lay next to her at night. True he had no hope of living up to her dreams of Thorongil, but then even Thorongil had no hope of living up to her dreams of Thorongil.

Realizing this she had tearfully admitted her failing as a wife and begged his forgiveness once more. She had not expected instant absolution and she had not received it. But now, time away from the city seemed to be slowly healing the hurt and distance between them.

Casting her gaze a little to the left, Fin's smile widened at the antics of her little one. Faramir. So sweet and loving and ever curious, he seemed engrossed in some newly discovered waterside denizen. She hated to interrupt, but it was time for the noonday meal.

"Sweeting, come eat your lunch."

Faramir sighed and ignored his mother. Lunch could wait, he had just found the most interesting shell and there was something still inside it. He poked at it with a small stick and it retreated further. Hmmm. Maybe father knew how to coax the creature from its shell. Father seemed to know everything. He looked up the beach for his father and made a moue of disappointment.

He was busy sparring with Boromir. Some time ago, they had removed the woolen batting from Boromir's practice sword and now he refused to be parted from it; saying how it looked much more like sword now instead of a small round sheep on a stick. Shaking his head, Faramir could not fathom why his brother liked fighting so much when there were so many more interesting things in the world, like shells with very strange things in them that refused to come out and play. Maybe if he stuck his finger inside instead of a …

Denethor whirled around at the piercing sound of his younger son's cry. Boromir had been in the middle of delivering a blow to his father's leg and was much surprised and scared when it actually connected causing his father to bellow in pain. Massaging his barked shin Denethor rushed to the pavilion where Faramir stood with his face buried in his mother's skirts.

"What's wrong Fin? Is he alright? What happened?"

On hearing his papa's voice, Faramir turned from his mother and launched himself into strong arms.

"It...hurt… papa," he wailed, sobs punctuated by childish hiccups.

Denethor looked to Finduilas, who shook her head that the boy was not injured only seriously affrighted.

Relieved that it wasn't serious, Denethor placed a quieting kiss on Faramir's temple. "And what has hurt Papa's little man?"

"It…was…a…shell!!" Faramir wailed again and buried his face in his father's warm neck.

Boromir looked up in disgust at his younger sibling. All this noise over one little shell.

Denethor admonished Boromir with a look and spoke softly to his younger son, rubbing slow small circles on his back. "Shhh little one, come show Papa this mean old shell and I will explain with the point of my sword that none may harm Lord Faramir whilst his father draws breath." Faramir shook his head no.

He felt wet snuffles and hot tears in the crook of his neck as the boy tried to settle further into his arms. Denethor sighed and drew Faramir close to him. The lad was so sensitive sometimes.

Boromir rolled his eyes again. Faramir was such a little baby sometimes. What was he going to do when an orc came and cut his leg off? Boromir was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would merely hop on one leg and keep fighting. To prove his point he started to do just that.

Raising an eyebrow at Findulais, Denethor enquired just what exactly had gotten into their older offspring now. She returned it with a look that said, "He's your son."

"Boromir," Denethor did his best to keep a chuckle from bubbling up, "What exactly are you doing?

"Fighting orc one-legged father," answered Boromir, his tone suggesting that perhaps Denethor could look forward to early dotage.

"Of course son, I should have recognized the technique."

Boromir nodded accepting his father's apology graciously.

After a few moments in his father's embrace, Faramir had finally settled down, coaxed by a piece of candied fig from his mother. Denethor winced as sticky fingers wiped themselves on his new linen doublet.

Denethor watched as Finduilas put the final touches on the luncheon and the family sat down to their meal.

"It looks delicious." Denethor leaned over and kissed his wife softly on the cheek. Boromir rolled his eyes and screwed up his face. Parents. They were always kissing or smiling at each other these days. It was disgusting, it was. No soldier of the realm should behave so. Faramir smiled sweetly, loving it when Mama and Ada were happy and hugged and kissed each other.

"Thank you." Fin acknowledged graciously, but with a warm undertone Denethor did not fail to discern. His smile widened a little. It felt good. Taking a bite of the spiced chicken, he sighed contentedly.

Boromir attacked his plate like the little general he was; peas flanking potatoes in an all out battle to take the mound of chicken. A pea tried to defect to the potato side and was instantly punished for it's treason by disappearing into Boromir's mouth. The chicken devoured first with military precision, followed by peas, followed by potatoes. Not a single morsel of food cross-mixed.

Faramir played with his food; peppering the potatoes with peas, admiring the contrasting colors and textures. The chicken was largely ignored, except for a few stray bites.

"Faramir, stop playing with your food."

"Yes mama," he responded obediently.

Boromir stared at his brother willing him to eat faster. The rule was, dessert could not be served until everyone was finished eating and it always took Faramir so long. Faramir was perfectly aware of Boromir's dilemma and resolved to take the tiniest bites possible and chew as them as slowly as he could. After all he'd already had a sweet. It was a perfect punishment for Boromir calling him a baby.

Groaning at another infinitesimal bite, Boromir directed pleading eyes to his father. His father hid his smile and turned a stern gaze to his youngest, "Faramir," he growled warningly. Faramir stuck out his bottom lip and proceeded to eat a little faster. In due time everyone was finished and dessert was served.

Denethor looked to Finduilas who was now leaning back in her chair, her already pale skin almost translucent. He swallowed the swiftly forming lump in his throat. "Are you alright my love?" he asked hoarsely.

Fin's lashed fluttered upwards, the shadows beneath her eyes more pronounced. "Just a little tired. I think I will go inside and lay down for a moment. There is a banquet tonight honoring the elevation of Captain Mirahil and I must see to the details."

"Does your father not have the staff to see to these details?" he asked an edge to his tone. She had seemed so tired of late, overseeing both their sons and her father's household. Couldn't they just let her rest?

Fin drew in a sharp breath at her husband's reproof of her family. "With my father widowed I am the lady of the house. Think you I am incapable of fulfilling my duties?"

Denethor sighed, again his words were twisted, misconstrued and it was his own fault. For so long his love had heard naught but censure from his lips, why would she believe otherwise now? It would be a long battle to completely reconcile with his wife. So many wrongs on both sides. "Nay my love, I only meant that you seem tired and perhaps the chatelaine could see to the more mundane details."

Findulais nodded, not fully convinced but willing to concede her lord's apparent concern. She stood and in gentlemanly response so did Denethor and her sons.

"Shall I escort you back to our apartments? "

"Nay, please stay and play with your sons. They see so little of you when we are in residence in the White City. "She nodded to one of their ubiquitous guards, "Naril, will guide me back."

The Swan Knight nodded swiftly and held out an arm for his lady to take.

Denethor watched, eyes narrowing, as his wife slowly made her way back to the castle.


	5. Trust To Hope

A/N Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everybody!! Standard Disclaimers apply. A great big thank you to everyone who reviewed. If you sent an email to me please resend to Katharina with an a not an e. It's a long, long story. And now…Chapter 5.

Chapter 5: Trust To Hope

Nerveless fingers clutched the piece of thick vellum as he hung his head, indecision and despair warring for dominance on his noble features. He could prevent this tragedy, but in doing so he would alert all to the return of the king and he did not think he was prepared to assume that burden. Yet to not act would be to condemn one near to his heart.

He turned to Gandalf, "Know you what this missive says and who it is from?"

Gandalf sighed, irritable, as was his wont when the pipeweed was running low and Isildur's heir was being more uncertain than was his wont, "I am no elf Aragorn, I can neither read your mind nor –"

Aragorn held up his hand"—Peace. I do not need your censure now old man."

"Old man!" Gandlaf sputtered. "I am neither old nor a man." Still Gandalf accepted the proffered parchment. Bushy eyebrows rose quickly as he digested the contents. It was brief, merely four words, but it was enough to send Gandalf's stomach plummeting..

_Eagle, she is dying. Please. _

Gandalf handed the note back to Aragorn with no comment save a narrowing of his piercing blue eyes.

No signature, no crest, nothing to mark the sender. Except, Aragorn inhaled deeply, his Ranger senses allowing him to detect the faint, yet distinctive scent of athelas. Athelas. Kingsfoil. A herb that in the hands of the king could bring a person back from the brink of death. This small thing branded the sender and his desire and the unthinkable thing he had done. Denethor had discovered Aragorn's true heritage.

Aragorn turned to the man who had served as a second father to him, deep grey eyes pleading for guidance.

Gandalf shrugged, "You have seen more than fifty-six winters, are leader of the Dunedain, and heir to the reunited kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor. Think you that perhaps it is time to make your own decisions?"

Aragorn grimaced at the hardness reflected in the wizard's deep blue eyes.

Gandalf continued, "You have seen what the Lady of Light's mirror shows. Are you willing to risk all?"

Taking the parchment from the wizard's hand, he read its contents once more though he had already memorized them. He did not want to think of what this simple message had cost Denethor. He did not want to think of Fin dying in a city she had never loved, far from the sea. He did not want to think of two small children who would know agonizing loss. No he did not want to think at all.

Gandalf laid a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder, perhaps regretting his harsh words of earlier. Who truly knew the mind of one of the Istari? "Things must be as they will be Aragorn; else all will fall to Shadow."

Closing his eyes against burning hot tears, Aragorn consigned the missive to the flames.

For a full month Denethor looked to the West, searching the frozen horizon for a familiar figure; the one whom he despised and envied in equal measure. The one who could save his darling Fin. Thank the Valar for the Palantir! Using the seeing stone, he had accidentally sussed out Aragorn's location and sent a brief missive.

_Eagle, she is dying. Please._

He had scented the letter with athelas, knowing that he betrayed himself and what he knew. But he would do it again and gladly if it gave him back his Fin.

Too late he had realized the depth of his loss. Fin had long ago grasped the nature of her feelings for Aragorn, childish longings of a woman not fully mature. She had set them aside and tried to love a husband who at first deceived with soft smiles and pretty words and then, once his second son was born and it became obvious that for her to bear another child risked mother and babe, was coolly indifferent.

She had understood his heart better than he. She had realized buried deep under that cool indifference was a small but bright flame of love and she had spent the coin of her life trying to uncover it. His memories took him back to Dol Amroth and that one perfect unspoiled summer.

But the summer was too short a time and when they had returned to Minas Tirith, it was as if the summer had never been. She gave up and in doing so gave in. She faded. Those who knew her not blamed the sea-longing, those who did, blamed Denethor. Too late he had come to understand that Fin's love was true and that in his own crippled way he loved her, but it was not enough to save her. He was not enough to save her. He looked to the west and begged his enemy to hasten.

A hand with bones as fragile as a birds touched his shoulder, "My lord, come away from that window, you will catch your death."

A brief sorrow-filled smile touched his lips to hear the concern in that too dear voice. "I am fine my lady. It is late. Should you not be abed?"

Findulais sighed, time and habit deafening her to the concern in her husband's voice. "Faramir came to me with night terrors. I was merely putting him to bed again. I too am retiring for the night; will you not join me, my husband?"

Denethor tensed at hearing his son's name. He could not help it. Did the boy not understand his mother required rest? That he sapped her waning strength with his childish needs and wants? That too soon she would be gone from them all?

He wondered if he had over played his hand in revealing to the Ranger he knew his true identity. He thought back to how he had learned who Captain Throngil truly was. It had been an innocent enough mistake on Thorongil's part. Few would have noticed. Fewer still loremaster enough to know that it was athelas that in the hands of the king healed. He remembered watching Aragorn brew feverfew for a comrade that had taken ill. The first batch had done nothing to reduce the lad's fever. Aragorn had then brewed a second batch and Denethor watched perplexed as Aragorn surreptitiously added the weed kingsfoil to the brew and laid his hands on the lad's forehead. In a matter of moments the fever had broken. He'd known then. Known but said nothing, for he knew how Ecthelion would have greeted the lost monarch; with the point of his sword or dungeon chains. So to protect the man who was his brother-in-arms, Denethor had kept it secret and hoped that until Ecthelion joined his forefather's beyond the veil, Thorongil would keep his identity hidden.

He barely felt his lady's hand slide from his shoulders or heard the whisper-soft glide of silks across the floor of his bedchamber as his wife retired for the night.

When Ecthelion had passed, Denethor had assumed Thorongil would return to claim his birthright. When he did not, the new Steward assumed he was gathering the army need to prevail against the growing shadow in the east and would soon come. As the months passed into years and the years into decades, Denethor realized that Aragorn would not come, that most like he had died at the hand of some nameless enemy. All he could hope was that he had managed to sire a son before his doom.

In the meantime Fin had grown weaker and the healers had been powerless to help. He had thought her fate sealed until one day while using the stone to ensure the security of the kingdom, he had stumbled across Aragorn in close conversation with Gandalf. He recognized the inn and had formulated a plan. He was a proud man and to give up his rule and his son's birthright left a sour taste in his mouth, but this was for his Fin and he would gladly have sacrificed himself a thousand times over to save her.

Denethor shuddered as he thought of the consequences if his missive did not reach Aragorn in time.

He looked to the corner where his wife had been sitting, embroidering one of Boromir's tunics and was shocked to see her gone. She must have retired. He frowned to think that she had not bothered to bid him a good night. He moved toward her chamber.

After checking to see that his lady was resting peacefully, Denethor thought of the remaining commissions lying unsigned on his desk. If he finished them tonight, he might have a few moments to spend with Fin over breakfast. The thought brought a small smile to his thin lips.

He left the Steward's apartments bound for his offices. The Hall of Kings was cold as only marble unrelieved can be. Denethor moved smoothly down the long corridor flanked by the kings of old. Suddenly his progress was checked by a scuffling behind one of the towering statues. Who could be in the hall at this late hour, he wondered. For any but the Steward to enter the Hall unescorted, was punishable by law.

He called out, hand on the hilt of his sword, "Who is there?" Silence hung in the cold air. Denethor tried again, "Come out now and I promise you will suffer no harm."

He squinted into the darkness as he saw a small figure clad in white move from behind the statue of Elendil.

"I am sorry, Father."

"Boromir?" Denethor's brows raised in surprise. "Child what are you doing here, at this time of night? In your bedclothes?" He removed his sable cloak and draped it around sturdy little shoulders.

Boromir's eyes lowered, tracing the marble patterns on the floor.

"Boromir," Denethor prompted gently placing a finger underneath the trembling chin and forcing Boromir to meet his eyes, "whenever your commander asks you a question, you must answer fully, truthfully and quickly, lives may depend on it."

The boy nodded. "I am sorry father. I know I should not be here, but I thought if I came here, he would be able to hear me better?"

"Who would be able to hear you better?"

"Faramir said that he would be able to help."

"Who would be able to help?"

A whisper. "The king."

Denethor groaned. "Oh little one." And scooped his son up into his arms. He was so much heavier than he remembered, but his arms were strong and he thought his son needed to be held at this moment possibly even more then he himself needed to hold. When Boromir realized he would not be punished, the story came pouring from him.

"Faramir told me, his teacher said we would know the return of the king because 'the hands of the king are the hands of a healer.' And I thought maybe I could pray that he come back and heal mama. But I guess he could not hear me because he did not come. So I thought maybe if I came here, because you said that if we talked to grandfather's statue it would be just like he was there to hear us, and told the other kings maybe they could find the live king and tell him that mama needs him. But he's not going to come is he papa?" The last words were said on a choked sob and Boromir laid his head on his father's shoulder, heart-rending sobs shaking his body.

Denethor was glad that his son could not see the tears that began to stream down his own face and he held the little body tighter to him, "You mustn't say that son. We must trust to hope." He felt rather than saw his son nod.

Carrying Boromir to his offices, Denethor settled him on his lap and began to sign the remaining commissions.


	6. Hands of A King

A/N Thanks for all the amazing reviews. I know this chapter is long over due and for all that, it is still really short, but I knew if I didn't post something tonight I'd abandon the story. So here's a quick moment with the Brothers Mir.

Roof. Roof. Hammer. Hawk. Ox Tail.

Boromir quickly ran his sweat-soaked sleeve over his eyes and started hacking at the wooden post again, his arms shaking with exhaustion.

Roof. Roof. Hammer. Hawk. Ox Tail.

He'd been practicing the same combination for the past hour and still the staging of the final stroke eluded him. The Arms Master's baleful stare let him know there was no help coming from that corner, so Boromir sighed and lifted his blade to the starting position for another pass. Another failure.

With his mind he understood it, with his body he knew could accomplish it, but it was as if asking the two to work together…Boromir hung his head for a moment and glanced over at the youngling's practice ring to see how his brother was faring.

Though far too young for the pell work that was Boromir's bane, youth did not excuse Faramir from learning footwork and body mechanics. Even at five, he was graceful and light on his feet. The Arms Master often commented on how he could not wait until Faramir was ready for the sword. This little one, he exclaimed to any and all who would listen would be a joy to teach. The words unlike his older sibling were unspoken yet fully understood.

If there was such a thing as a natural swordsman, Boromir understood he was as far from it as one could get. But he had determination and the will to succeed. It was what kept him in the practice ring, long after the other boys of his class had mastered the day's lesson, until he too could step through the difficult and deadly combinations expected of him.

Hefting his sword for what he knew would be the final time, his arms wouldn't be able to raise the blade any more after this, Boromir emptied his mind and let his body guide him…

"Finally! Didn't think yeh'd ever get it." The gruff cry startled Boromir, who had not quite come out of his almost trance. "How many times do I need to tell yeh, the brain is for learnin', the body for doin'? Stop thinkin' 'bout it an' just do it! Don't I tell yeh that all the time?"

Boromir nodded. "Yes Armsmaster."

"Yeh let your mind do the thinkin' and that's all it'll be doin', for yer body'll be orc bait."

Boromir's brow furrowed as he tried to follow the twisted logic. He was too tired. It was enough that he'd mastered the combination once; now it would remain forever locked in his body. "Thank you Arms Master."

The old soldier nodded his acknowledgement. "Go tend yer armour anfd then off with ye to yer father." Boromir nodded a last time and walked toward the disarming area of the ring.

No Boromir was not a natural swordsman; but he was unmatched by any his age.

Settling down onto the sand floor, Boromir rolled his shoulders and neck to ease some of the kinks out and set about cleaning his weapon and armor. Engrossed in his task, he failed to notice a pair of wide-set enormous blue eyes following his every motion.

"Are you almoth done?"

"Eru's bum!" Boromir called out the worst curse he knew, as his finger was nicked by the point of his sword. It wasn't sharp, but still, if you weren't paying attention it was possible to injure yourself.

"Thorry," came the childish lisp.

"It's "sorry"," Boromir sighed.

The owner of the bright blue eyes tried again, "Saw-ree."

Boromir rolled his eyes, "Close enough. And you shouldn't sneak up on people, it's rude."

"I didn't. I walked right up to you. I even thaid…sh-aid your name."

"Whatever. Are you done with your lessons?"

Red curls bounced.

"Good, you can help me clean my armour." Boromir commanded, thrusting a gauntlet at his brother. Faramir took it and sat next to his grumpy sibling. He reached for a boar's hair bristle and started to work, trying to rid the tiny articulated joints of grit and debris.

The brothers worked in companionable silence, the mundane task soothing Boromir's fractious mood. After a time, Faramir finished one gauntlet and reached for the other. Boromir handed him an elbow cop instead, knowing that to clean two gauntlets would make his brother's fingers cramp later as they didn't yet have the strength to handle cleaning both.

Faramir took the cop without comment and set about polishing it to a mirror finish. Boromir was enjoying the quiet but knew it wouldn't last.

"Bor'mir?" And he was right.

"Yes Faramir?"

"When will mama come watch uth practithe again?"

Boromir closed his eyes as a deep pain knifed through him. He knew the answer to the question, but how did one explain never to a child? He didn't know, so he didn't even try.

"When she feels better."

Small hands stopped their labor. "When'll that be?"

"When the healers say so."

Faramir quieted at the mention of the mysterious black-robed men. They were so very serious and a little frightening. Faramir remembered showing one of them his very best card trick and not even a smile. His card trick always made Mamma smile. And when she smiled she seemed to feel better. Maybe the healers could bring in a real magician and he could make mamma better or..or maybe "…the king."

Boromir turned sharply at his brother's whispered word. "What did you say?"

"I thaid the king. Maybe the healers could bring back the king. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer."

Boromir stared at his little brother open-mouthed.

"Where did you hear that?"

"From Nanny."

Boromir snorted, refusing to remember a time not long ago when he'd held the same hope close to his heart. "It's an old fairy tale. There is no king. If there was, don't you think he would have come and healed mother?"

It was Faramir's turn to stare in open mouthed shock. "Of courthe there's a king."

"Yeah?" Boromir stared hard at his sibling causing him to recoil just a bit at the fierceness in his brother's gaze, "Yeah? Then where is he? Why isn't he here? Why isn't he here making mamma well?" Boromir's voice broke on the last word

Faramir shrugged, completely out of his depth, both with the question and his brother's uncharacteristic display of emotion. "I dunno. Maybe he's got thomething weally important to do?"

A ragged sigh, "And what could be more important than healing mamma?"

Faramir shrugged and shook his head. Having no answer for his brother, he started to polish his other elbow cop.


End file.
